Uncle Maeglin
by 0torno
Summary: Maeglin hates Tuor, but Earendil has too much of his mother in him for Maeglin to hate him.


Maeglin was bent over the forge, toiling over a sword commissioned by one of the other House Lords. The dimness of the room was lit only by the glowing red-hot molten steel of the blade and the occasional flurries of sparks that danced through the close air, glittering, until they faded into the blackness. Maeglin's face was illuminated from below with the soft glow of fire as his hammer rang on the anvil again and again, muscles straining though his face showed no sign of stress save a faint sheen of sweat.

"Uncle Maeglin!"

The door banged open, spilling pure golden sunlight, blindingly bright, into the workshop. Maeglin peered into the dazzling sun, eyes watering.

"What is-?"

Ëarendil ran into the workshop, launching himself into his uncle's arms. He hugged him tightly. Laughing softly, Maeglin picked up his nephew. "Hello, little Ëarendil. You gave me quite the shock."

"Hi, uncle. I missed you," he said brightly, pushing back to meet Maeglin's dark gaze.

Ëarendil had his mother's eyes. Maeglin had noticed that the first time he saw the child, a week after he was born. The boy's were almost identical to his mother's, although they showed a little more deep blue like his father than the glittering ice blue that stared at Maeglin with coldness and distrust.

The child smelled like her, too; a light, earthy scent too delicate to pin down, yet somehow so strong it made Maeglin's head spin whenever he breathed it. When he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that the warm body in his arms, the soft hair on his cheek, was Idril's.

"I am glad to see you too, little one." He kept his eyes closed, breathing in deeply. "How is your mother?"

Ëarendil giggled. "That's silly," he said. "You saw her last night, at the banquet. You could have asked her yourself."

Smiling ruefully, Maeglin spun him around once and then set him down. "She must have been too busy to talk with me."

The boy walked over to the anvil and stood on tiptoe, trying to see. "What are you making? Is it for me?"

Letting out a snort of laughter, Maeglin gently pried his nephew off the anvil. "It is a sword, little Ëarendil," he said, picking it up with leather gloves and dipping it into a nearby barrel of cold water. A cloud of steam erupted into the air with a hiss. "It is for Lord Penlod. His old sword was broken, during that battle I told you about." He placed it carefully on a rack to cool.

"Oh." Ëarendil looked thoughtful for a moment. Then his face brightened. "Did you make something for _me_, uncle Maeglin?"

"Yes, little one," he promised, ruffling his nephew's hair. "Don't I always?"

"Uh huh," he said, eyes shining with anticipation. "What is it? Is it good?"

Shaking his head in amusement, Maeglin reached to a high cupboard. "Patience, love. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." He rifled though the cabinet and pulled out a little metal bird, encrusted with jewels, complete with wings and crest and ruby-studded eyes. Its wings were tightly folded to its sides.

He held it out on his hand, crouching down to his nephew's eye-level. "See, little Ëarendil, it's a bird. A bird all made of jewels and metal."

Ëarendil pouted. "Rog gave me one just like it," he complained. "It looked nicer, too - his was an eagle. This is just a swallow."

"Ah, but what is the use of a bird that cannot fly?" Maeglin asked sagely. "This little fellow can; Lord Rog's cannot."

Eyeing his uncle suspiciously, Ëarendil took the bird and turned it over in his hands. "You're weird, uncle Maeglin. A bird made of metal cannot fly. Look, he doesn't even have feathers!"

"He doesn't need them," Maeglin said, barely suppressing the glee he sometimes felt when explaining his work to others. "Watch this."

He flipped the bird over so its feet pointed into the air. A little key protruded from the centre.

"Turn it," he said eagerly. Looking skeptical, Ëarendil grasped the metal key and turned it three times. A clicking noise like the turning of gears sounded with each turn.

Quickly Maeglin placed the bird, upright, in his nephew's palm and stood back.

"Keep your hand flat," he instructed. "That's good."

The clicking of gears continued for a moment, and just when Ëarendil looked up in confusion the bird's wings suddenly spread out. Its bright eyes glowed to life and it looked around, motions jerky.

"Look!" Ëarendil said in excitement. "Look, uncle, he's alive!"

Maeglin's eyes were still trained on the bird, now hopping enthusiastically in the boy's palm. "Wait for it..." he muttered.

Suddenly the bird took off. With a gentle hop it launched itself in the air, and fluttered around the workshop, a blur of sparkling metal. Ëarendil cried in awe, spinning around to try and follow its erratic flight path.

"Uncle Maeglin! Uncle Maeglin, he's _flying_!"

Maeglin laughed in exhilaration. "Yes, little one. He is."

Just then, the bird landed on the table. It shuffled a couple steps, then went still. Ëarendil's face fell. "What's wrong with-"

"Don't worry," Maeglin said quickly. "If you want him to come back to life, just turn the key again."

"Wow. You're really smart."

Smiling wryly, Maeglin handed the bird back to his nephew. "Your mother doesn't think so," he said.

"Well, she _should_," Ëarendil said shrilly. "I'll tell her how smart you are."

"Thank you, little one." He closed his eyes tightly, massaging his temples. A sudden headache throbbed behind his eyes.

"Why don't you go out back and play with your bird on the Silver courtyard's grass?" he asked. "I need to get Penlod's sword done."

"Alright," Ëarendil said. He wrapped his arms around Maeglin's legs in a brief embrace, then reverently picked up the mechanical bird. He skipped outside, letting in another bright wash of daylight. But the door swung shut, restoring the workshop to shadow.

With a sigh, Maeglin took the sword and began heating it up again.

He had only just begun to hammer on the tempered steel when the door opened again.

Tuor stood in the door, a dark silhouette surrounded by blinding white light. "Good afternoon, Maeglin," he said diplomatically. "Is Ëarendil still here?"

Glancing at the doorway, Maeglin ignored the second question. "Is it afternoon already? I hadn't noticed," he said coolly. "_I've_ been working."

"It is long past noon. Is Ëarendil here?" Tuor's face, as always, was bright and earnest, golden hair framing his face like a halo of light, seemingly indifferent to Maeglin's ill temper.

Maeglin took his time pulling the sword again from the forge before answering. "He left."

Tuor's brow furrowed. "Where?" he asked. "You could at least look after him, you know, if he shows up by himself. Show some responsibility."

Maeglin's lips twisted into a humorless smile. "And what would a _mortal_ know about responsibility, Tuor?"

"There's no need to be rude."

"And there's no need for you to stay in Gondolin. Why don't you go visit you kindred, the house of Ulfang? I'm certain _they_ will enjoy your company."

Maeglin could see Tuor's jaw clench in anger, but the mortal's voice remained steady. "The King would be disappointed to hear that you speak thus of his son-in-law."

Shrugging slightly, Maeglin turned his back to the doorway. He began again to hammer the folded steel of the sword. "He's in the silver courtyard," he said at last. "He's fine."

"Well... Good day, then. Enjoy your work," Tuor said, turning to go.

"Enjoy your leisure time," Maeglin sneered. "And do close the door on your way out."

Tuor pulled the heavy slab of wood closed carefully, though his lips were tight with anger. The sunlight receded, returning the workshop to shadows and the glow of fire.


End file.
